


Ice and Claw

by Nonsuch



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Fantasy, Prophecy, Witches, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonsuch/pseuds/Nonsuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's winter, and a strange visitor knocks on the door of a house that's never visited with a very precise request - he would like to know the future of a certain Miss Sarah Williams. Written for the LabyFic livejournal community challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice and Claw

I occupied my house for sixteen years before I had cause to open its door. How strange, you say! While I can acknowledge that it must seem so, it never seemed strange to me – only necessary. I cherished my loneliness, and was glad for the warmth, the stuffiness and the quiet. I became intimately familiar with my own self, accustomed to every sound my mundane daily activities produced; I familiarised myself with the gentle scrapes of my slippers on the carpet, the shrill squealing of the kettle on the stove and the mild clatter of cutlery being set upon the tablecloth. 

Knowing this, you will understand why I was surprised to hear a knock at my door. I was in the kitchen cutting off the rotten chunks off old potatoes when the knock came. I stilled my knife and listened to the ensuing silence before returning to the task. When the knock came again, the knife slipped and cut my tough, work-hardened finger. I sucked on the blood to stem the flow, casting my gaze across the small, stone-laid parlour where the door was. I moved towards it slowly, starting when the knock sounded once more – impatient and urgent. 

Now, the door had been prepared for visitors. It had ten bolts, three latches and four spyglasses positioned strategically at various heights. I reached for the cover of the highest spyglass with a shaking hand, finding it stiff from disuse. When I succeeded in dislodging it, I pressed my eye to the glass slowly, careful not to make a sound.

The man at the door was a stranger to me; though he was barely visible in the dark, I knew I knew him not. I immediately drew back and replaced the cover of the spyglass. I returned my bleeding finger to my mouth and hurried back towards the kitchen, perturbed by the thought that nothing but a wall separated me from the stranger. Before I could return to peeling my potatoes, I was stopped by a voice.

‘You aren’t the least bit curious? I passed many disfigured corpses on the journey. It seems likely that it has been a long time since you last had a guest.’

I looked around, startled. This voice was not of my imagining, and it certainly hadn’t originated from within the house. No, it had entered my mind without the need for anything so base and mechanical as speech. I shook, viscerally reminded of how deeply I loathed magic. Somehow, I retained enough presence of mind to send a reply. 

‘I have no interest in you. Leave. If you do not, I will see to it that you suffer.’ 

I continued to hold my finger in my mouth. The sting of blood on my tongue was proving to be a strangely effective aid to concentration. 

‘Oh, will you now? Do tell me how.’

I hesitated before replying. ‘I have a protector. He is many leagues more powerful than you can ever dream of being, wizard.’ If I hadn’t cared for my carpet, I would have spat at the ground at the mere mention of the profession. 

‘Allow me to pose a question. How many days has it been since food last appeared in your larder?’

I strained to keep my mind empty, but the number formed in my mind before I could stop it. ‘Five.’

‘And you expect food every three days, don’t you? I never learned his habits properly. Perhaps it’s four. However many days it is, I know you depend on him for sustenance – dependence is not strength; it is weakness.’

I walked back into the kitchen and bandaged my finger tightly with the first piece of cloth I found. Once the bandage was secure, I picked up the knife and continued to peel the potatoes.  
‘Your protector’s name is Bartholomew, isn’t it?’

Without wishing to, I answered. ‘Yes.’

‘I have some news of good Bartholomew, if you care to hear it.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I will say nothing more while left in the rain.’

I looked at the worn, blunt knife in my hand, and instead of setting it down on the table I kept it held in my fist as I returned to the door. I said nothing as I set to work on the bolts and the latches, and was asked no questions. 

I left a single latch intact before opening the door, pulling it open a crack and immediately flinching from the bite of the cold. How dreadful the air felt upon my skin! How cold and thin and bitter! Unable to stand it, I removed the latch quickly and heaved the door back across the paving stones. The stranger stepped inside along with waves of chill, rain-soaked air, and I immediately heaved the door shut behind him. Instead of facing him, I focused on the task of drawing the bolts and hooking every latch. I had already let one wizard through my door, and loathed the thought of entertaining another. 

When I had finished the task some minutes later, I turned to find the stranger reclining in my favourite high-backed chair. “Well, this is pleasant isn’t it? He certainly made you comfortable.” He gestured towards the fire, which had started burning merrily and gobbling up my last remaining logs. 

“Put that out!” 

He did not, and I had to watch helplessly as the fire continued to burn. 

“Tell me your news and leave. And take your filthy boots off my table!” I cried, indignant now. 

He stared at me, guileless. “How rude. My boots are perfectly clean.” His feet remained firmly in place, making my eyes bug. I did not give him the pleasure of acknowledging that he was right; though I could not see how in view of the conditions outside, his boots shone.

“Tell me your news immediately, or I will see you straight out!” I held the knife tight in my clenched fist, half-concealing it behind my back. 

“I return to my earlier question: How, exactly?”

“With this knife, if I have to!” I immediately drew out the knife, but this did not produce the effect I had hoped for. My whole arm shook liberally, and I quickly became aware that I was making it abundantly clear that I had never used a knife for anything more adventurous than slicing a carrot. 

The stranger merely smiled, and before I realised what was happening I felt the skin on my left hand freeze, gripped by the most intense chill conceivable. My attention shifted to the knife; it had been turned to ice. With a yelp of alarm, I worked to prise it from my ice-stiffened fingers. As soon as it was free, I let it drop and watched it shatter on the stones. 

I looked up and glared at the man, my body hot from fury. “Abominable creature! Leave! Whatever you want, leave! You will have nothing from me!”

“So you don’t want to hear my news?”

“No. All I want from you is your absence.” My voice was a croak – the mere act of holding a simple conversation was exhausting – and I found myself staring pointedly at the floor to avoid witnessing his amusement.

“Ah, but if I leave, you die. You may be exceptionally talented, witch” – oh, how that word stung! The falsehood of it! The indignity! – “but you still need food to live. This rock is barren; the only life it supports is yours. And no wizard, however great his power, can send food once his body has began to rot.”

I was quiet for a few moments, merely staring. My reply came slowly, my words halting. “No. You’re lying. You’re a trickster, all deceit – I have yet to hear an honest word from you.”

“By all means, don’t take me at my word. But you should equally refrain from dismissing me without thought. You may find this evidence more compelling.” A crystal appeared on his finger – it was an iridescent shining thing which contained some obscure flickering flashes of colour. Despite the fear coiled tight in my chest, I approached. My eyes were ageing and had lost their former sharpness, but I gradually came to distinguish an image. I halted a foot away; I was close enough to know what I was looking at.

“You murdered him, didn’t you?” 

The stranger threw me an affronted look. “Such a bold accusation! No, he was merely old, and old men have weak hearts.” His gaze drifted to the crystal, and he regarded the body without displaying the merest flicker of emotion, “As I’m sure you are fully aware, eternal life has proven elusive to mortal men.”

I watched him carefully, noting the eerie perfection of his face and realising that his boots weren’t the only parts of him unaffected by the wind and the rain. He was entirely dry, and not a single one of his many hairs was out of place. His face was strange, both boyish and ancient at once, and it somehow defied easy classification. It was not handsome, it was much too sharp and unsymmetrical for that, but it possessed a kind of wild beauty. I had only heard stories and seen occasional glimpses of them in visions, but I knew enough to feel reasonably sure that my best chair was being occupied by a creature rather than a man. “Then I suppose you do not consider yourself a mortal man.” 

He smiled coyly, and that smile was the neatest answer he could have given. I couldn’t feign surprise; he lacked the twitchy, defensive pompousness exhibited by mortal wizards. No, if anything, this creature possessed a surplus of confidence. He had magic and power and the appearance of youth and beauty; I was baffled as to what he could want from me. 

“I have little doubt that you are a villain, but it appears that I have no choice but to trust you. Cease your games. What could one of your kind want from me? I am old and ugly. What difference does it make to you whether I live or die?”

“I would have thought that clear. You live here alone, in a house that’s never visited that is set on a hill ringed by a sea which is surrounded, in turn, by a forest that crosses the borders of three realms. All said geographical masses are liberally covered with corpses in every imaginable stage of decomposition. You are well protected – and no one protects an old woman so well without good reason.”

I glared, painfully aware that the extent of my defences betrayed the depth of my vulnerability. I shuffled into my second-best chair, taking time to recover my breath before speaking. “Go on. Tell me what you want. Speak directly. I know where I am. I know many dullard men have died in foolish attempts to reach me. I understand why they would attempt the journey, but you? What do you care for the future?”

“It so happens that I need to make a plan – some knowledge of the future can assist with that, as I’m sure you understand.”

“What is the nature of your plan?”

“It concerns a woman from the world above.” 

This made me frown, but I did not interrupt. 

“I will tell you more presently. First though, I presume you have a price?”

“Yes. Maintain me. Sustain my defences. Ask me for no other insights than those I will grant you today.”

“A high price. Purely to satisfy my own curiosity, what power would you have to harm me were I to set your little home alight the moment I left it?”

This presented me with an opportunity to smile. How glorious it felt to smile rather than be smiled at! “I presume you don’t know the meaning attached to this,” I gestured towards the great red rash that extended downwards from the tip of my nose, “do you?”

“No, I do not.” He spoke without interest, paying his fingers more attention than me. 

“Well, in that case I will explain. This mark is both my gift and my misfortune. I was born with it, and the parish priest told my parents that this mark meant that I could see into the future. I should have been turned over to an order, but my parents cared more for money than religion. They took me to a city by the sea so they could sell my gift. It took time for word to spread, but eventually people came flocking to us. I was five when I first told a man a future he did not wish to hear. The future was so trivial, I cannot even recall it. But whatever it was, the man was displeased. He called me a brat and a liar, and set his hands about my throat. My parents were still poor, the man rich by their pathetic standards, and they were far too cowardly to intervene. The man squeezed and crushed his fingers against the bone. He ordered me to tell another future, a better future. When I gasped that I could not, he tightened his grip. That was the moment when his hands began to burn, his flame-hot flesh bubbling against my throat. When he wrenched his hands free, they were little more than raw hunks of flesh. He fled, and from that moment on few men have been foolish enough to threaten me. I have many more stories of men who failed to fear my power, if you care to hear them.”

The stranger stared, and to my unqualified delight he removed his boots from the table without me having to say a word. His shock quickly faded into petulance, and when petulance was all that remained he reminded me of nothing so much as a sulking child. When he spoke, he spoke with care and precision. “You paint a vivid picture, and it is a picture that I can believe. I will give you what you want, and I will not harm you when I leave. To tell you the truth, I could give you far greater things than those you ask for. If you desire a castle, I will give you one. If you require servants, I will bring them into being for you. If you would like gowns and jewels, I will furnish you with them.”

I shook my head, chuckling low in my throat. “I am perfectly happy with what I have. I have already laid out exactly what I require as payment. That is all you need give me.”

“Very well. I will be a superior patron, I assure you. My gifts will share my longevity.”

“I would rather not benefit from that aspect of your patronage.” 

“Oh, I’m sure that nature will see to your death in due course. But for now there is no reason to dwell on death. We have a deal.”

“We do not.” The man’s amiable smile dropped instantly, but I continued before he could say a word. “First, you must touch my mark. Touch my mark, and our agreement will hold; I will tell you the future you wish to know, and you will keep me as I have requested or suffer for your breach of promise. If you do not touch the mark, I will see no future and you will have no plan.”

The stranger looked at me, staring long and hard at my face. The longer he looked, the clearer it became; I was hideous. I had half forgotten it, without mirrors and without people; you need to see your face being seen to truly know that it is ugly. His face twisted minutely as he looked at mine. It was unmistakably the first time he had really looked at me and taken in the extent of my deformity. I don’t think he had realised I even had a face to begin with; I was merely old, and no man gives an old woman long, lingering looks. He began to extend a gloved hand towards my face, but I held up a hand to stop him.

“No. The touch must be skin to skin.”

Without moving his eyes from my face, he removed his gloves. He rose from his seat, removing the garments with quick, graceless movements. I started when I saw what they had been hiding. His hands were better described as claws, and his nails were sharp and pointed like knives. What skin there was on his hands was pure white, the white of bone rather than the white of skin. He betrayed no shame, his gaze level with mine.

“You needn't be frightened. I’m no more monstrous than you are.”

I closed my eyes, and drew in a long, steadying breath. He could not hurt me if I could not see his eyes. “Touch me on the forehead, above the nose. Take care not to prick me.” 

Moments later, a cold, fragile claw was pressed against my forehead. The contact stung, and I felt a wave of magic pulse through me as the deal was set. The sensation, once so commonplace, now felt strange. I shuddered to shake it off, and when it finally faded I opened my eyes. 

“It is done?”

I nodded, opening my eyes slowly while avoiding the sight of his face and his hands.

“Then let us proceed. Here. I would like you to see her before you perform the magic.”

He had conjured another crystal, this one less brilliant than his previous creation. He held it mere inches from my nose, and I found myself fascinated by the way his claws curved over the surface. I was impressed by his control over his monstrosity. He hid it, that was certain, but he didn’t appear the slightest bit uncomfortable. No, I sensed he wore the gloves out of habit – out of practicality rather than a refusal to acknowledge his deformity.

An image formed in the sphere quickly, and I soon found myself gazing at the sleeping face of a young girl. I supposed that she qualified as pretty, though I had long since grown indifferent to beauty. I had encountered many men in the thrall of beautiful faces, and despite each besotted man’s protestations the objects of their affections were never more than flat, mute faces to me. 

“You can see her, can’t you?”

“Yes, clearly –”

“Describe her to me.” His voice was urgent. I looked up from the crystal. His eyes were fixed on my face, hungering for my words. 

“Surely you know what she looks like!” 

“Of course. I’m not talking of her appearance – describe where she is, what she is doing.” I remained incredulous, and the explanation continued. “I can conjure her image, but I cannot see it. You should know better than most that magic is governed by strange and frequently infuriating rules. I will ask you again: What is she doing?”

“She is sleeping.”

“Well? Does she seem peaceful?”

“I would say so. What is this girl to you, whatever you are? Why do you care how she sleeps? Why do you go to such lengths to know her future?”

He smiled tightly as if recalling a fond but vexing memory. “Let it suffice for me to say that she beat me at a game.”

“So you want revenge?”

The smile faltered. “No. To exact revenge would be much too simple; Sarah deserves more. She deserves a plan.”

“She seems like a simple girl,” I peered at the crystal again, watching as the girl slept on. How I envied her peace, her solitude! “Little more than a child, really.”

“That is her power.” His voice was wistful now, strangely lifted by what I sensed was admiration. “That is how she wins. She seems exactly like any other girl. She makes friends.” There was a hair’s breadth of a pause, and when he spoke again he spoke in a darker tone. “She persists.” He let the words hang before extending his claws, causing the crystal – and the girl it held – to vanish. “But there has been enough talk. What do you need to perform your magic?”

“A part of her, her name, her age, her location and a bowl of water.”

“This contains an abundance of her. Will it do?” he held out a hairbrush clogged with long, dark hairs. I took it from him, placing it on the arm of my chair and offering a quick nod as an answer. “Her name is Sarah Williams, she is sixteen and she lives in a town named Thiells in a province named New York. I presume you are capable of g water yourself.”

“You are abominably rude,” I grumbled, extracting myself from my chair, grabbing the brush and moving stiffly towards the kitchen. I had none of the old paraphernalia in my cottage, so found a shallow breakfast bowl and filled it with fresh water from the pump. When I moved to the door of the parlour, I had to shout to get the stranger’s attention. “Come into the kitchen. The table is higher here.”

He glided into the kitchen, his movements hardly perceptible due to his cloak and his grace. 

As he watched, I wrenched clumps of hair from the brush. It was a miracle that she had any hair left at all, given how much of it she’s managed to drag out with the thing. I dropped a generous handful in the bowl before undoing the wrapping on my finger and discarding it besides the bowl. I pinched my finger to draw fresh blood, and was a little perturbed to find myself entirely indifferent to the harsh press of my nails. The legacy of seventy years of blood and prophecy was, apparently, resistance to pain. I closed my eyes as I worked the blood out, thinking of the name and the age and the place. Without opening my eyes or moving my nails from my finger, I asked “How far do you want me to look?”

“Find her first love. Tell me their name and where I can find them. That is all I need to know.”

I did not reply, but did open my eyes to look into the bowl. The water had turned a brilliant red, and was thickening fast. I concentrated hard, willing the scene to come. I was conscious of the stranger moving to my side and peering at the bowl with me, his body tense and his claws set against the soft wooden surface of the table. I had just begun to sweat when an image started to form – the girl’s face formed first. Her face was leaner than before, wet and red from tears. The image solidified slowly, extending to show a hand brushing against her cheek and a face leaning towards hers. She was drawn into a kiss, but I dismissed the image quickly by flicking my finger in the water – nothing bored me more than doomed young lovers. When the image reformed, they were speaking and I could look long and hard at the young man’s face. He had sandy hair, a large nose and spots; he was strikingly ordinary. The information I needed was found quickly from a letter that had been left carelessly on a desk. As soon as the words came into focus, I dismissed the image and turned to the stranger.

“There. It’s done. You saw what you needed to?”

He did not answer, and continued to stare at the water. This was most strange, for the water had regained its natural consistency. It contained no faces, only blood. I moved to lift the bowl, but paused when the stranger spoke. “That is truly the future? That is who she loves?”

“It would seem so,” I answered, bored. After re-bandaging my finger (for form’s sake rather than from necessity, for I doubt that finger had even a drop of blood left) I moved to take the bowl, carrying it to the sink and pouring the spoilt water down the drain. “Now, when will I have my goods? My supplies?”

The pause was lengthy, but when the answer came the stranger’s voice had regained some semblance of normality. “Show me where you would have them appear, and I will place the necessary magic there. You will have your supplies as soon as it is in my power to provide them.”

“That better be soon. Our agreement means poorly kept promises are punishable as well as broken ones. Best not drag your feet.”

I led him to the larder, watching as he entered and laid his claws upon the middle shelf. I reminded myself to wipe the surface – and the table and the chair, for that matter – after his departure. “You have made the nature of our agreement entirely clear, I assure you,” he said. I knew from the strain in his voice that he was concentrating to work his magic out, and decided to have a little fun.

“Do you know what Bartholomew used to send?”

“What?” He looked up, though his claws didn’t leave the shelf. 

“The food and goods that Bartholomew used to send! How stupid you are.”

“To be blunt, no. I do not.” His voice was tight, and I could sense that what patience he had was slipping. “If you must, leave me a list. Every item you include will be provided. Now be quiet and allow me to finish.”

After acknowledging him with a grunt, I turned and returned to the parlour. The air sizzled with magic and stank of smouldering wood, but I had known enchantments with worse side effects. I found a cloth and wiped the arm rests of my favourite chair, depositing myself in it firmly and picking up the knitting I had left on the table besides it. I was briefly returned to my own company, and if it hadn’t been for the strange smells that laced the air I might have been able to imagine I was alone. For the first time I was glad for the fire the stranger had lit; its warmth softened the chill that had entered the house with him, and I knew I had no further cause to worry about my firewood running out. Some time passed before I noticed that the smells had faded, and that no sound was coming from the kitchen. 

I put my knitting aside and rose, calling out “Hello?”

My call was not answered. I entered the kitchen to find the window wide open, allowing great swathes of chill air to enter the room. I rushed to close it and checked the locks and bolts before turning towards the larder. The stranger was no longer there, the fact he had once been there betrayed only by a burnt patch of wood and a note written in a strange, spiky scrawl:

__

Since you appear to detest my company as much as I have come to detest yours, I concluded that you would fail to be gratified by a goodbye. Leave a list as instructed, and you will have whatever you ask for.

____

The note was later burnt on the fire, though I followed its instructions and the food and supplies I requested duly came. I left the hairbrush and the hair (along with the stranger’s discarded gloves) on the shelf with a note requesting that they be removed. The next morning, they were gone.

__

I forgot the details of the girl’s face hours after first seeing it, and can no longer tell you the colour of her hair or describe the shape of her eyes. Indeed, I can sense the whole episode fading even as I think of it. Soon, the only memories I possess of it will be the prick of a claw on my skin and the icy touch of the air. And how blissful it will be to forget!

__

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - This was written for the latest writing challenge on the LabyFic LiveJournal community, which requested that people right about Jareth as an unexpected guest. I took the theme to its greatest extreme (in terms of the unexpected part).
> 
> Many thanks to NiennaTelrunya for the beta! Please review - I love to hear my readers thoughts, and welcome criticism as long as it is constructive.


End file.
